


Hubris

by saiansha



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist!Reader, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Biting, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Come Shot, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Dom Loki (Marvel), Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Frottage, Gratuitous Smut, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Multiple Orgasms, Nude Model!Loki, Nude Modeling, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tasteful Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, artist!loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:08:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23403493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiansha/pseuds/saiansha
Summary: Art was supposed to imitate life. Life was supposed to be imperfect. But Loki, the man who was modelling for you, was perfect.You were determined to find a flaw in him. He was already posing naked - it shouldn't take much to get him to bare his soul too for you, right?Read this onTumblr.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Original Female Character(s), Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Comments: 29
Kudos: 239





	Hubris

**Author's Note:**

> Please thank Bird of Hermes for coming up with the idea of Loki modelling naked for you. Please thank her for letting me steal this. Please also blame her for letting me steal this because if she'd done it, you would've got filthy smut. But with me, you've got tasteful smut and overly gratuitous and long drawn use of art metaphors.
> 
>   
> 

Art was supposed to imitate life. Life was supposed to be imperfect. Life was supposed to have flaws. But the man in front of you was perfectly flawless and flawlessly perfect.

And it _annoyed_ you.

To start with, he had perfectly smooth alabaster skin that would have made the fairest and daintiest Victorian girl sick with jealousy. His cheekbones were chiselled enough to sharpen your charcoal pencils with. His eyes were like a palette of the deepest blue and green mixed together, perfect to paint the ocean with. His torso looked as if Michelangelo himself had carved it: defined, brimming with power, but not preposterously so. His legs were long and limber, and his hands… well, his hands were proof that god was real, for how else could such exquisitely long and slender fingers have been crafted?

Yes, he was perfect, and you knew this because you could see _every_ inch of him.

You were in your last year of art school, and one of your final projects was supposed to be a series of figure studies, each centred around a theme of the artist’s choosing, completed in private sessions with a figure model. You had chosen to capture imperfections in all your models. They had been short and tall, slender and rounded, old and young. It had been easy to find imperfections in them. Sure, imperfections were a matter of interpretation. They didn’t have to be physically present – it was more about drawing what you perceived. But the absolutely gorgeous naked man modeling for you right now was doing absolutely nothing for you.

You sighed wearily. You thought you saw the man’s eyes flit to you. He was on his knees, sitting atop his heels, one hand on his abdomen, the other on the back of his head, with his torso and head turned slightly to the side. You studied his hands. They were so expressive, even more than his face. His eyes were cold and aloof. Was that just because he was modelling or was it a – gasp – flaw?

It was then that it struck you: you didn’t know the model’s name.

A name spoke of the person’s personality. It spoke of their character. It spoke of their flaws. And you were determined to find one.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

This time, you caught his eyes snap to yours.

“Loki,” he replied.

Any hope of finding an imperfection disappeared as soon as you heard his voice. Deep – but not overly so – dulcet and melodious, it sounded like it could sing sin to you.

“As in… the trickster god?”

“I’m afraid so."

That explained it. He was simply divine.

You did your best to not let your head drop against your canvas in despair. The clock showed you had still thirty minutes left, but you started packing away.

“Are we done?” Loki asked.

“Yes,” you replied.

A pause.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you repeated as you gathered up the pencils and erasers that had fallen to the floor.

Another pause.

“Is there something specific you are looking for? I can certainly accommodate anything you have in mind.”

“Oh, I doubt you can,” you muttered wryly.

“I beg your pardon?”

Your head shot up. You just realised how your private joke would have sounded to him. He rose on his knees and put one leg forward, shifting his weight on it to stand. You didn’t fail to take in how the muscles in his thighs tensed as he shifted his weight, or how those graceful fingers flexed over his other thigh in support as he stood up.

You shook your head. “Sorry, just thinking out loud.”

He looked annoyed – understandably so. An annoyed, beautiful, naked man. You squeezed your eyes shut in frustration. This was so unprofessional. You were used to drawing naked people without blinking an eye. You had to snap out of this.

“Sorry, I just –”

“You are doing your final project, yes?” he asked.

“One of them, yeah,” you replied.

“And your university has already paid for all the sessions, so you are scheduled to be with me.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

“Then it is in your best interest to tell me what you want from me so that I can inspire you to complete your project.”

You gawked at him. “I am perfectly capable of completing my project, thanks.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “I am not disparaging your capability. But as a fellow artist, I know how important it is to get the model to not just model, but to model for you.”

His declaration took you by surprise but you tried to not let it show. “Look, you don’t have to ‘model for me.’ Just keep doing what you are.”

He rolled his eyes.

“What was that for you?” you asked indignantly.

“What was what for?”

“That eye-roll!”

“I’m technically done modelling, so I can do whatever pose or expression I like, yes?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You are rather talkative for a model.”

“You are rather uninspired for an artist.”

You narrowed your eyes further and glowered at him till you found your tongue. “You are rather unprofessional for a nude model. You know you are not supposed to talk to artists during breaks without a robe on, right?”

“But we are done now, yes?”

“Definitely.”

“Then I’m not on a break.” He bent to pick up his robe and shrugged it on to his tall, chiseled frame.

“Well, yeah, you’re not on a break, but you’re done, so you still have to put your robe on. And you didn’t have it on when we were –”

“Have a good day,” he said and walked out, leaving you to admire his toned calves.

* * *

It was two days after your first rendezvous with Loki, and you were just as lost as before. He had gone through some of the gesture poses and had now settled into a long pose. It annoyed you that he had been right, but now you were determined to find something wrong with him. And the best way to do that would be to talk to him.

“Why did you choose to be a model?” you asked.

This time, his back was to you. He sat with one leg folded under him and the other stretched to the side, with one hand over the opposite shoulder and the other resting on the floor.

“Models are not supposed to talk with artists outside the break,” Loki replied.

You wondered if he always sounded sarcastic or if you were just projecting. His sarcasm would have been an excellent thing to draw, if only it were possible to depict it.

“We’re in a private session and I don’t mind. Besides, your back is to me,” you said as you rubbed the canvas to smudge the shadows to show the tension of his rhomboid muscles. You wondered how those muscles would actually feel like under your hands. “So I’m not capturing your expression now, so you can talk.”

“You were complaining about me being talkative the other day.”

“Yeah, well,” you looked up, “I changed my mind. So why did you choose to be a model?”

“It was my one true calling.”

You pressed your charcoal pencil a little too hard into the vellum. “Are you always this sarcastic?”

“Always,” he confirmed.

You huffed and decided to just go back to your sketch, wondering how you could portray insufferableness.

“As I told you last time,” he added, “I am also an artist. Art students aren’t rolling around in money, sadly, and being a model pays well. It also helps me to be a better artist.”

You sharpened the taper of his torso from his waist down to his hips. “How so?”

“It makes me more aware of my body. It teaches me to be aware of the smallest muscle, to notice the slightest twitch, to detect the slightest change in placement of weight. It teaches me to better understand the interplay of light and shadow with each movement. Perhaps most importantly, it teaches me to better interpret what every movement could mean.”

“Wow…” you mumbled. “That’s… very deep.”

He shrugged. It was not an out of the ordinary movement, but something about the way he did it arrested you. It was so effortless, so graceful and uncaring, so casual. “You don’t have to be a model for this, but you should try it for yourself in front of the mirror. It might help you.”

“Like van Gogh?” you asked, frowning in concentration as you accentuated the angles of his shoulders.

“Yes, but preferably without the amputated ear.”

You snorted.

“What is the theme of your work, if I may ask?”

“Imperfections. In us all.”

“And there is no better way to find them when you are naked, literally and figuratively,” Loki commented.

You hummed in agreement.

“Although,” his voice took on a lighter note, “I understand now why you are having such a hard time. It must be so difficult to find an imperfection in me.”

Your eyes snapped up. You were not thrilled at all he had sussed you out so easily. You looked at his profile. His face was mostly tilted away from you, but you could make out by how much more prominent than usual his cheekbones looked that he was smiling.

“You’re rather cocky, aren’t you?” you noted.

“Oh, dear,” he purred and this time, you pushed the charcoal pencil so hard that it ruined the sketch, “Artists are not allowed to make any comments on the model’s… appearance.”

You flushed, both from dismay at spoiling a sketch that had been coming along well and from his innuendo, “I didn’t – I don’t – it’s inappropriate that you’re interpreting it this way.”

“It’s inappropriate you said it.”

“Oh, please, interpretation is in the ear of the listener.”

“Doesn’t quite have the same punch as ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder,’ does it?”

“You really are talkative for a model.”

“You’re the one who started it.”

“Fine!” you exclaimed and nothing more was said for the rest of the session.

* * *

You came to the next session slightly more inspired.

“How many sessions do you do each week?” you asked him as you drew him.

Today, you had actually requested him to sit facing you. He had looked at you in faint amusement, no doubt remembering how you had refused to direct his pose in the first session. You had made him bend one knee, with the other leg at a right angle to the ground. His upper body was bent, with one hand clawing his knee, and the other curled against his cheek, drawing attention to his thin lips. His face was shrouded for the most part, but his cold green eyes were clearly visible. Models never looked at the artist directly because it was unnerving for the artist, but you had made him look at you for this session. The mocking, clever and knowing glint in his eyes disconcerted you, but that discomfort was necessary for what you wanted to depict.

“I do around five sessions a week, sometimes less, sometimes more. The sessions last for an hour, if not more.”

“Doesn’t it distract you from your own work? Does it not become tedious to constantly be someone else’s muse rather than focus on bringing your own muse to paper?”

“A little,” he said. “But it pays well and is still a good experience. I can always decline contracts if I wish.”

“Hmmm…”

“I also have the privilege of being exposed to different art styles and getting to see how the art is crafted. There was this one time I modeled for a blind artist. It was a fascinating experience.”

“How was that?”

“Unusual, for starters. He still has some vision and he was born with sight, so he knows his colours. He relies on texture and touch a lot.”

I stared at him, desperate to ask him but also pleading with myself to not open that can of worms.

“Go on,” he said mischievously, eyes shining with mirth. “You know you want to ask me.”

You bit the bullet. “Were you nude?”

“Yes.”

You stared at him for longer before blurting, “Didn’t it make you uncomfortable when he touched you when you were naked?”

“Why would it? He was the artist and I the art. He felt inspired and I felt… worshiped.”

You kept looking at him, transfixed, thrown off. It wasn’t something as petty as vanity, but it was arrogance. But could it even be arrogance if it were undisputable beyond doubt? Could it be called arrogance when he was taking pride in something he had every reason to take pride in?

“You should consider it,” he said suddenly.

“Consider what?”

“Letting yourself feel.” Your chest expanded as you took in the hidden meaning of his words. He continued, “You can feel so much more, _see_ so much more, especially imperfections, when you close your eyes.”

Your hand started shaking so hard that you dropped your pencil. The tip broke apart as soon as it hit the floor. “This is really –”

“Inappropriate, you’ve said it before. But again, the meaning is in the mind of the perceiver.”

With a start, you realised it was a much more poetic version of your wonky ‘interpretation is in the ear of the listener. “What is that supposed to mean?” you challenged.

“That it is only inappropriate if you choose to think of it so.”

Despite yourself, your mind conjured images of what it would be like to touch him. What it would be like to brush those sooty locks away from his face. What it would be like to grip his shoulders for support. How it would feel like to claw his back to ground yourself. How it would feel like to have those hands – those graceful, beautiful, expressive hands – seek out your perfections and imperfections. How perfect it would be to do this… as well as how imperfect, how absolutely wrong, it would be to give in to this.

When the hour was up, you ran.

* * *

This time, you made him model differently. You made him sit atop his heels, as he had in your first session together. His torso arched towards you, shoulders thrown back, head almost parallel to ceiling but slightly tilted so that you could see the satisfaction on his lips. One hand rested over his chest, fingers splayed haphazardly, and the other over his thigh, the fingers curled more purposefully.

“Could you move your hand slightly higher up?” you asked.

“My chest?” he asked.

“Your thigh,” you answered as your legs squeezed involuntarily.

This wasn’t an erotic artwork. This wasn’t supposed to be sexualised. It was just supposed to _be_ , but you couldn’t help it. You knew now what you were going to capture: the rapture on his face from simply being himself. Your work was not going to objectify him in any way, but you imagined rapture of a different sort in your mind.

His fingers moved up his thigh, flexing lightly before stilling. “Is this enough?”

“A little higher, please.” He brought them higher up. You assessed the positioning objectively to make sure it wasn’t actually suggestive. “That’s good, thanks,” you replied.

“Happy to inspire,” he said.

You squeezed your eyes shut momentarily then got to work. The minutes passed by in silence. For once, you were too involved in your work and the joy of being able to finally execute your vision to strike a conversation. He didn’t look like he minded the silence either. You knew he was deriving satisfaction from being looked at, from being inspired by. It was he who had to remind you that it was time for his break.

You nibbled your lip at you watched him shrug into his robe. “Would you like to take a look?” you blurted out.

“Only if you want to show,” he replied seriously.

“I do.”

He walked over to you and you watched how deftly he tied the knot, so deftly that he could have put a sculptor working on their marble to shame. He leaned over you, maintaining his distance. He didn’t touch you, but you could almost imagine how his hands would feel on you if you tried hard enough. You were acutely aware of how thin the robe was and what lay beneath. You were acutely aware of how he was close enough to touch. His eyes drifted over your drawing, no doubt dissecting the imperfections in it. You almost wanted to turn to look at him, but _he was so close_.

After what felt like an eternity, he commented, “I see no imperfections here.”

Something inside you stirred. You turned to look at him coolly. “You are not giving me much to work with, though I assure you, I have found some.”

A smirk lazily crept across his lips. “Have you, now?”

“Yes of course. I am being perfectly imperfect.”

“Or imperfectly perfect.”

“Maybe. Now,” you said boldly, so differently from before, “I’d like to take a closer look at you.”

“So that you can be less imperfectly perfect?”

“So that I can be more perfectly imperfect.”

His smirk deepened. “Well, you would not be making the most out of your private session if you weren’t able to get up close and personal.”

Another almost innuendo. You stood up, decreasing the height difference between you both. “When you’re ready,” you gestured, without taking your eyes off him.

He walked back to his spot and once again assumed the pose. You waited, then moved your canvas and supplies closer to him. You drew for a few minutes in silence before he spoke up again.

“What would you like to take a closer look at?”

“Your neck,” you replied, eyeing the smooth column of his throat. “I’d like to capture the tension in it. And the strain of your pectorals and the muscles of your shoulders.”

“Tension and strain are best captured when you can feel them. You get a sense of the tautness they hold, the emotion they carry, the power they contain. You get to feel them thrum with life. Isn’t that what art is about? Life? And isn’t that what life and being alive are about? Life? Imperfections? And how better to be alive than to feel, touch, sense and experience?”

Your breathing had become steadily heavier with each word he had uttered. Even when he was so naked and exposed, he was so at ease with himself. You had never seen anything like it.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked quietly. “What do you want?”

“I want your art. I want your genius,” he replied. You watched his Adam’s apple bob as he spoke, the slightest vibration visible from this angle. “I want you.”

“Why?” you asked, frustration creeping into your voice. You were the artist, not the art. Why would he ever want you?

“Why are you inspired? Because you just are. Why do I want you? Because I just do. There is no reason to it, just as there is no reason to art.”

You frowned in concentration and consternation as you added more strokes to the sketch. It was there… it was nearly there… but not quite. Not yet. It wouldn’t be perfect until you felt for yourself his imperfection. It wouldn’t be until you let go and experienced it for yourself. With a sigh of inevitability, you put your pencil down.

“Help me feel, then. Help me experience,” you said, voice thick with emotion and desire.

He didn’t respond for the longest time and you wondered if he hadn’t heard or if you’d made a misstep. It was then, however, that he let his hands drop to his sides and brought his head up to look at you. You watched him stand up, like a snake coiling itself and getting ready to strike. It took him two short steps to be right in your face. He put his arms on either side of you on your stool, trapping you, then roughly jerked the stool around till your body was facing him. He put one hand on the edge of the stool, daringly close to your hip, and the other over your wrist. His hand trailed up your forearm, your elbow, your upper arm, your shoulder, your neck and finally stopped at your chin. He tilted your face up so that you were no longer staring at his chest but rather at his face. His eyes searched your face in question. You closed your eyes and tilted your face closer. Barely a second later, his lips were on yours.

The kiss was both what you had and hadn’t expected it to be. It was soft and gentle, and not hard and rough. It was, however, as possessive and demanding as you had expected. He claimed your mouth and sucked on your tongue as if your mouth was his to claim and your tongue his to play with. His claiming surprised you, but you told yourself to not be surprised, but instead, to feel and remember.

Before long, you were voicing out your pleasure in soft moans and whimpers. Your clung to his shoulders – exactly the way you had fantasised. He pulled you closer into himself, confident that he and he alone could help you weather the storm within. Or at least, that’s how you chose to interpret it. He pulled away from you, skin flushed and mouth open. Your fingers moved to push a stray ebony lock away from his forehead – again, just as you fantasised. He smirked softly at the gesture. You committed that smirk to memory.

“Touch is best deployed when vision is impaired,” he said.

He moved away from you and walked back to where his robe was. You shivered even though it was he who ought to be feeling cold given his state of undress. He fumbled within his robe, then walked back to you holding the object he had been looking for: a long handkerchief. He brought it up to your eyes.

“May I?” he asked.

You bit your lip and nodded. He smiled – a genuine, reassuring smile – and wrapped the cloth around your eyes, shrouding your world in darkness. Everything seemed so much more intense at once. You could feel the sweat dripping down your neck. You could feel your heart pounding away in mingled fear and anticipation. You could feel the warmth from his body. And you could hear his breathing deepen from excitement.

He helped you stand. You gripped his forearms – strong forearms, you thought dazedly – as you stood. He removed his hands from you and you almost keened from the loss of his touch.

“Touch me as you see fit, artist,” he whispered, making your heart beat all the faster.

You stood there, still torn. You wanted this, though you were not sure you should take it. You wished he would just drag you under and take the choice away from you, but you knew he wanted you to take the leap. He wanted _you_ to immerse yourself. You felt conflicted. You felt helpless due to your lack of sight, but then you remembered that you were not the one powerless here. He was the one who had lain himself bare for you. He was open to you and you were going to greedily partake of him.

You decided to start at the top. You lovingly caressed the silky mass of his hair. You cupped his face, feeling the sharpness in the angles of his features. You reached up to kiss that sly, sensual mouth. You tried to control the kiss, but he wouldn’t let you. You committed that incessant need to control every situation to your memory. For now, however, you basked in the warmth of his breath fanning your face.

You broke the kiss and moved down his neck. He was warm and sensitive here. No matter how invulnerable, infallible anyone seemed, there was always a weak spot, you realised. You stroked his neck to get a sense of how the muscles and tendons felt when relaxed. Then, you brought your lips closer, paying attention to how the muscles gradually tensed. And then, you dove in for the kill. You parted your lips and bit the soft flesh, causing him to let out a long sound that was halfway between a gasp and a moan. His head whipped back and your fingers stroked that vein that stood out. You moaned softly as you _felt_ the intensity of his pleasure.

Your hands drifted down his arms, seeking the muscles and bones as much as massaging them. When your hands entangled with his, you lifted them to your lips. You reveled in how perfectly your fingers locked together. You kissed each finger, letting him know how devastatingly beautiful you found his hands, happy for once to feed his ego. You let go of them gently when you were done and reached back up to his shoulders for support. Sighing, you let your cheek rest against the smooth expanse of his chest. You listened to the thunderous beat of his heart and fancied that he was upset that he could not hide how unaffected he was.

You kissed my way down his chest, letting your hands follow in the wake of my lips. His hands twitch from the need to touch and feel you, but he restrained them. You knew it was so that you had unfettered access to him, but you told myself that it was because he wanted to keep that persona of aloofness and distance even as he slowly bared himself emotionally the way he had bared himself physically. At last, your hands reached his thighs. Carefully, you dropped down to your knees and stroked the limbs, reveling in the raw power thrumming through them and feeling how they were coiled and ready to launch into action. Your fingers must have been a little too high up, for his breath hitched and the muscles of his thigh stiffened in anticipation. You removed your hands and trailed them down his calves. Later, you assured yourself; there would be time for more touching later.

Once you reached his feet, you hobbled over to the other side till his back was facing you. Then, you began my journey up, feeling once again the calves and the thighs, the sides of his hips, the taper of his waist and finally, his back. You pressed kisses from the small of his back up to the back of his neck, one kiss for each vertebra in the beautifully curved and strong spine. He shuddered and twitched every now and then but stayed still for the most part. He realised you were done when you wrapped your arms around him and rested your face against his back. Only then did he cover your hands with his.

“What now, my imperfect muse?” you sighed.

You felt his muscles twitch with laughter, unwilling to accept that he was anything but perfect. “Now, my dear artist,” he purred and you clung tighter to him, “you learn how to draw me.”

He broke free from your gasp and started rummaging about your set. You hopped on one foot then the other, anxious to be even an inch away from him with your vision gone, but it wasn’t long before he came back to you. This time, he lifted you, making you shriek.

“Relax, dear artist,” he laughed.

You wrapped your legs securely around his narrow hips and gasped when you feel his hardness impatiently pushing against your thighs. You squeaked when pulled you down, but he arrested your fall. He arranged you on his lap in a way that he deemed fit. You smiled at how he demonstrated in the smallest of gestures how he thought he knew best. He pulled your dominant hand up and fastened your fingers around a slim, cylindrical object. You frowned as you feel it, and frowned harder when you realised it’s one of your charcoal pencils.

“Trace my outline, dear artist,” he whispered. He brought his wrist up to his mouth and nibbled and licked and sucked at the delicate skin, electrifying every nerve in your hand, charging it up to draw.

And draw you did.

You retraced the journey your hands had undertaken with the charcoal pencil, outlining his face and memorising the movements so that you knew how to repeat them on the canvas. You lightened your touch at the peaks and hardened it in the hollows. You traced the cheekbones and collarbones with a feather-light touch, and pressed in the pencil in the troughs of his face and the pits of his throat. He sighed as he felt the gentle stroke of the cool pencil and hissed when he felt it press against his skin. With every sigh and every hiss, he raised his bare hips to meet your clothed ones.

“We need to start preparing the paints and wetting the brushes, my dear,” he whispered hotly in your ear while you traced his arm.

“And how do we do that?” you murmured as you buried your face in the crook of his neck and sucked at the skin there.

His hands drifted to the hem of your top. “May I?”

“Yes,” you said quickly.

You thought he smiled smugly before he gave you a peck and lifted your top up. You helped him take it off and he turned to your jeans. You tugged them off while he helped you with the bra. And together, you threw away the panties, leaving you as naked as your muse. 

He pulled you back to him and you let out a high-pitched sound as you felt his body with the whole of yours. Everything felt so much more intense and new and unusual now that you couldn’t see. His hands stroked and petted and massaged your back, your shoulders, your belly, your hips, and you wanted to scream in shock from the familiarity and boldness of his touches. You knew then that you would never forget how boldly he touched you, almost as if he knew right from the beginning that you were going to give in to him. He wrenched your fingers open and pried away the charcoal pencil.

“The sketch is complete, though now you have to fill out the finer strokes,” he said as he guided your hand to stroke his cock.

He didn’t let your hand go till you were stroking him the way he wanted to be stroked, the way he thought was the best. It took you a while since you couldn’t see what you were doing. Once you had figured out the rhythm, he let go of your hand and instead, buried his fingers in your folds. You cried out in surprised pleasure, almost weeping from the realisation that those fingers you had fantasised about were _finally_ bringing you the pleasure you craved. Despite yourself, you tried squirming away, but he tightened his hold over your hip and dug his fingers in painfully.

“No more running away, little artist,” he growled, making you shudder, “you are going to stay here and let yourself _feel_ , just as how I am letting myself feel how wet your tight little cunt." He emphasised his words by slipping in his fingers deeper and curling them with excruciating slowness. “So wet already. It won’t take us much longer before we can start painting after all.”

You weren’t sure if the wetness that just trickled out was caused by his fingers or his words or both. With your free hand, you tugged hard at his hair, making him cry out in pain and pleasure, and your finger rushed once again to find that one vein on his neck. You tugged his head forward and your mouths met with a clash of lips and teeth.

“How much longer?” you panted against his mouth, running your fingers over his face, desperate to see him.

He hummed against your mouth and quickened his movements in your core. You gasped as you felt your slick walls clench around his fingers, throbbing wildly, sucking up more and more of his fingers even as it felt so good that it almost hurt. Your hand slipped away from his cock as the onslaught of pleasure hit you.

You cried out as his hand landed hard on your cheeks, making you rock closer into him. His fingers dug into the globes and squeezed hard, accentuating the pain of his slap. “Focus,” he growled. “Concentrate. You must learn how to feel and paint at the same time.”

Your hand resumed its rhythm on his cock, but his slaps did not relent. They cut through the pleasure yet also heightened it until the pleasure outraced the pain and only thing that remained was bliss. Your body locked into an arch, like Loki’s had when he was modelling for you, and you let go. You spasmed and squirmed and writhed, unable to process the pleasure that was ten times as intense because all you could do was feel and hear, not see. You clung to the darkness in the hopes that it would soothe you, but the darkness seemed to be alive with blues and greens and reds and yellows. It was your pleasure, what little part of you that retained consciousness thought. If you concentrated hard enough, you thought you could arrange the colourful dots in the outline of the man who had exposed you to this raw pleasure.

After you had relaxed in his lap, his hands crept up to your face. He removed the handkerchief. You blinked rapidly, the sunlight almost hurting your eyes. Loki threw the cloth away and softly kissed your eyelids. You smiled at him, a little taken aback by the affectionate gesture. He smiled back at you serenely.

“Do you like your sketch, artist?”

You surveyed him. The sooty black of the charcoal contrasted wonderfully against his porcelain skin. You saw the pink flush in his cheeks and neck and other parts of his body. You saw the slight discolouration against his neck where you had bitten and sucked at him. The small drops of red clinging to his lip, an unfortunate result of your angry kisses, completed the sketch. If he had claimed and marked you, then so had you him. You had left your signature in black and red and purple and pink over his body. You had traced his angles and hollows as if they were your creation that no one could claim ownership over. He was yours in a way that he would be no one else’s. He was your art and you his artist.

“It is breathtaking,” you exhaled against his lips, just as he dove his cock up your core.

He ate your cry and pulled you closer into him, preventing you from escaping his brutish pummeling.

“I am your art and you are my artist, are you not?” he growled in your ear.

“Yes, Loki, yes!” you chanted.

“I am yours and you are mine, are we not?” he groaned as he bounced you up and down his cock, making sure to let you feel every tug and slip and ridge against your hot, wet, sensitive walls.

“Yes,” you groaned, “yes!” as you spread your legs wider to take him in deeper.

Your hips were still tingling from the spanking. When he unrelentingly brought your hips down to his, your flesh tingled all the more from the blessedly hot pleasure. He pulled you closer and grinded into you. You went limp against him, too helpless to move away from this new rising crest of bliss. He pounded into you over and over, almost as if he wanted to rejoin with you, to cease being a creation of yours and merge back into the deepest recesses of your mind. You tightened your walls around him, more than willing to let him merge with you and complete you. His fingers worried at your clit and with a few short rubs, you lost yourself in your release once more. Once again, a mandala of colours exploded behind your eyes, swarming you and lifting you to carry you away to the ether. You cried and moaned and sighed and groaned as the pleasure tore through you. It erased you and refilled you over and over again as if you yourself were a painting that an artist was working upon, till the painting was complete and the artist was satisfied.

Loki petted and soothed you with those lovely hands. You burrowed yourself closer to him, happy to forget about your art or your project or the other cares of this world, content to just feel.

“So,” you asked at last, “are we done with the art then?”

His cock twitched insider you. You drowsily realised that he still hadn’t come yet.

“Not in the slightest,” he said and lifted you off.

His cock sprang free from your channel, drenched in your slick. He stood up and then led you back to your stool. He made you sit on the very edge with your legs apart, pressing your core flush against the surface. You gulped when you realised you were at the perfect height for his cock. He loomed above you, looking every inch like a god.

“I couldn’t help but notice, dear artist, that you had got some of my proportions wrong,” Loki said. “I’m sure we’ve corrected the proportions for the other parts, but there is something that could use some extra attention. You see, some of the parts in your sketches could have done with a little more _girth,_ ” he said as he slowly stroked his cock. You drank in the sight of it, all pink and glistening.

Unconsciously, you licked your lips. His eyes trailed that movement. "Cocky, aren't you?" you repeated the question you had asked him in your first session.

"Very much so."

You smirked. “How do we correct my mistake?”

His eyes darkened until they looked almost as black as the charcoal smudged across his face. “We imprint the memory of it on your mind forever. We make it so that whenever you draw, it is me and my cock that you are thinking of. We make it so that you cannot ever draw another man again without slipping your hands between your legs to the memory of the taste and the feel and the sight of my cock.”

Your eyes flit between his eyes and his cock. “And how do we do that?”

He smirked. “Why, we make you feel, of course.”

He came even closer to you till his hips were flush against your chest. He stroked his cock till the tip started leaking and then brought it against your nipple, rubbing the wetness around the areola. You jerked in surprise and upon feeling the blunt head against your sensitive bud.

“We make you feel,” he said, brows furrowed in concentration as he painted himself on you, “and we make you associate my cock with that feeling so that you may never forget.” He paused to stroke his cock once more, before dragging the tip across the valley of your chest to the other breast. “Go on, then. Rub your clit against the stool. Why else do you think I made you sit with your legs spread so prettily?”

You glared at him with as much heat as you could muster. “Who do you think you are?” you asked even as you started rocking your hips.

“Your Loki,” he answered.

“Mine?” you asked, trying to not get distracted by the cock that was sliding up your neck to your cheek.

“Yours,” he confirmed, “because only you will have this precise experience with me.”

Your mouth fell open and a moan escaped. You thought he would slip his cock inside your mouth, but he merely rubbed it against your face, pressing it against your cheeks and teasing your lips with the tip.

“Keep going,” he murmured and you realised you had stopped in breathless anticipation.

You spread your legs wider and started moving your hips in earnest against the cool, smooth surface. Everything started narrowing down to the throbbing between your legs and the feel of his cock against your body. You had come twice already and yet it wasn't enough. He cupped your breasts and rocked his hips against your chest, not so much as using your breasts to stroke his cock as just inundating you with sensation. He brought his cock up to your face again and you did what he wanted you to do: feel. You felt the length and thickness of it, you felt its warmth, you felt its hunger for you. He pulled away from you briefly to stroke himself again. He brought his tip to your mouth and smeared the precome over your lips as if were a lipstick. You smiled and smacked your lips, looking at him with wide eyes.

“Beautiful,” he commented. “Open,” he said firmly but softly.

You opened your mouth and welcomed him with your tongue as he slipped in. Your eyes fell shut once more. You felt so full: so full of pleasure, so full of desire, so full of emotion. He buried his fingers into your hair and used the strands as reins to set a pace to his liking. You focused on the feel of his cock in your mouth. He didn’t overwhelm you, but he didn’t let you off easily either. It tasted like both your essences combined. It was not unlike when you mixed two colours to create something new, for you both had mixed your desire with each other so thoroughly that neither of you could distinguish your essence from the other's. You moaned at that thought around his cock. He hissed and dug his fingers deeper into your hair, almost slamming your head down as far as it would go.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he growled. “You will never forget this. You will never forget the feel of me beneath your hands, on your lips, in your mouth. Won’t you? Won’t you?” he snarled and surged his hips even further. He didn’t let go of your head so all you could do was moan around his cock again in affirmative. “That’s right,” he crowed. “My beautiful artist. It is time now. You are almost there. Time for you to finish now. Time for you to throw the last of yourself into your masterpiece. Time for you to let go.”

He started rocking your head to the rhythm of your hips. It was all too much. You stopped thinking and feeling and simply let go. You fell against him as your clit throbbed painfully before releasing the tension and transforming the delicious agony thrumming within into nothing but sheer pleasure. Your mind flooded with another burst of colour. You moaned and groaned around his cock as if you couldn’t get enough of him, desperate to continue pleasing him even as wave after wave of pleasure dragged you under. You slumped against him, tender and overloaded, but he wasn’t done yet.

With a litany of curses, he pulled his cock out of your mouth. You forced yourself to open your eyes and whimpered helplessly. You just wanted to drift off and let your bones soak in the pleasure the way the canvas soaked in the colours. You watched in confusion as Loki pumped his cock furiously. Even in your exhaustion, you admired how every muscle and tendon in his body had tensed up, making him look more arrogantlyglorious than ever.

“And now,” he said in a voice several octaves deeper than usual, “ _I_ will be the artist and _you_ , my canvas.”

With a long drawn groan that reverberated within your body and your tiny studio, he spilled his cock over you. Ropes of thick hot come landed on your body, creating an erotic latticework of sin and pleasure on your skin. You felt it drip down your skin and moaned in satisfaction. He had marked you and painted you just as you had marked and painted him. You rejoiced in not just how much he had made you feel, but also in how much _you_ had made _him_ feel, the evidence of it now cooling on your overheated skin.  
  
He caved in on himself, his head bowed as he struggled to catch his breath. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked vulnerable. His pride and self-importance had vanished, leaving behind a person who was hungry for connection and desperate to feel… just like you. He looked up at you to find you observing him. You thought he would don that cold exterior once more, but he didn’t. Instead, he watched you the way you watched him. His release clung lovingly to your nipples, your belly, your neck and your face. You didn’t wipe it off. Instead, you showed off what you had created together. After a while, he came closer to you and tilted your chin up to kiss you gently, gratefully. He thumbed your breasts and spread and rubbed his come over your skin. You looked at him inquiringly.

“Never forget to blend the colours,” he said.

You both laughed till you were breathless once more.

* * *

A few months later, Loki received a digital version of your project portfolio. He carefully and wistfully admired each of the pieces. The fifth piece was all too familiar. It was of a man sitting on his heels, his head and hands deliberately larger in proportion. He almost appeared as if he were touching himself suggestively, but not quite. The emphasis was on the human imperfection from being lost in the sheer, almost obscene and immoral rapture of being and admiring yourself.

It was titled “Hubris.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think? Thank you for reading! <3 If you'd like to chat or support with me, please reach out over [my Tumblr](https://saiansha.tumblr.com).


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